by A S Croyle
He thought a moment. “Fey don’ ge’ fem from graves, does fey?”
I doubted that Archibald had ever read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein or Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities, which had certainly popularized the image of the Resurrectionists, who were often eminent physicians who snatched bodies or employed grave robbers to supply them, so that they could study colours of death displayed in various stages of bacteria in corpses. Putrefaction was an important factor in the timeline of death... the subtle green that appeared twenty-four to forty-eight hours post-mortem; the feathery black along the vessels; and the black blotches that would smear the face and torso and limbs after four or five days. That was when the final never-to-be-forgotten stench of death permeated the air.
The poorly maintained city graveyards gave off their own peculiar smell as well. I shuddered, remembering the mortuaries near the dock after the Thames disaster. It was not inconceivable that Archibald knew grave robbers. Perhaps he had even been approached to participate in such activities himself. Hopefully not by Sherlock, though he’d mentioned back at Oxford that, for purposes of research, he had ‘come across’ severed heads and legs and arms, likely provided by those undesirables who made a living dismembering with crowbars, axes and saws.
“Why do you ask about such things, Archibald?”
“I ’ears fere’s good money in i’. I ’eared they does i’ ’andsome, they does. Nearer on four pounds, sometimes five. ’ave a mate ’ho give up crackin’ cribs fer it cos ’e says ’e ’ad a nice spree over it.”
“It is illegal, Archibald.”
He lowered his head. Then he said, “We best be goin’, Miss.”
“Yes, we should. Now, remember Sherlock’s instructions, won’t you? You won’t say much. I will tell them that you stutter a bit and that you are shy. And if you recognize the Asian man you saw - if we indeed meet one - then you are to remove your hat and walk away as if to study something on display. You’ll remember, won’t you?”
“Yes, Miss.”
I paid for our lunch, and Archibald stood, poked out his elbow for me to slip my arm through his, and placed the hat on his head.
As we walked up the steps to the British Museum, Archibald turned to me and asked, “Fem grave robbes... yer said wha’ fey does is illegal?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Bu’ Mr. ’olmes tol’ me yer kin learn all sors a fings from dead people.”
“Yes, a scientist can learn things, like when the person died and what caused it. But there are proper channels, legal ways to obtain corpses to study.”
“Oh,” he muttered as he opened the door for me.
I did not like his preoccupation with the subject, but when he did not say anything else, I chose not to pursue it.
We made our way to the curator’s office but were told he wasn’t available,’ no doubt due to the unwelcome notoriety of the museum in relation to the murders. When I explained my interest in the Buddha statue to the clerk, he cocked an eyebrow. “Is this about the Buddha and the bird left at the murder scenes? Because if it is, we have no comment.”
I feigned ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Murders? Here? In the museum?”
“No, just out... never mind. The curator is not available. I can direct you to someone in the Oriental Department, if you wish. Your name?”
I decided to lie again. Sherlock had undoubtedly given a false name when he masqueraded as a reporter to talk to the curator. I was certain of that. I was uncertain, however, if there were any other newspaper articles floating about that might list my name as the niece of the accused. I decided to use one of my middle names... and Sherlock’s surname. “My name is Olympia Holmes,” I lied.
“Follow me then, Miss Holmes.”
He took me to a small office near the Oriental Department and introduced me to a man who had just joined the staff of the British Museum. He was about Sherlock’s age and his name was Theophilus Goldridge Pinches. In the course of our conversation, I learned that he had been employed in his father’s business as a die-sinker but broke from his father’s clutches to follow his amateur interest in cuneiform inscriptions and Assyriology.
“Very admirable, Mr. Pinches. What do you do here?”
“Painstaking work, actually. I am trying to translate some Babylonian tablets which relate to the Battle of the Vale of Siddim that we have recently acquired, and I am planning on writing a book about Assyrian grammar and late Babylonian forms of characters.”
“An ambitious enterprise. My brother Archie” - Archibald nodded and tipped his hat-”is hoping to join the staff of the British Museum one day as well. He is particularly interested in the artefacts relating to Buddhism. And no, this has nothing to do with the murders about which the clerk has only just informed me,” I lied. “We come here often, Archie and I, and he would like to study the tenth-century bronze Vairocana? Of course, we know it is impossible for him to remove it from the premises, but I was wondering, do you know any artist, someone who could replicate one for him? His birthday is coming up and it is all he has talked about.”
“I have not heard him utter a word,” Mr. Pinches observed.
I placed my hand on Archibald’s shoulder. “He is rather shy.” I leaned toward Pinches and whispered, “And he stutters. He is a bit embarrassed by it. But he is very, very keen on Asian art.”
“Well, young man, I wish I could introduce you to Augustus Franks. He is the Keeper of Antiquities. He has been here for over a decade and he is very knowledgeable. But, there is someone else who may assist you. Follow me, please.”
As we walked up a flight of stairs, Pinches said, “Only a few objects were acquired from Asia until recently, but our collection is now one of the world’s largest, mainly because of a series of donations. The first was from Hans Sloan who acquired quite a bit of Japanese material from a family in Germany. A physician in the family, Dr. Kaempher, was quite the world traveller, and he led an expedition to Japan. There is also the Bridge Collection of East and Central Indian Sculpture and-”
“Quite interesting,” I sighed, running out of patience. “But Archie is really quite intense about his research into Chinese culture and Buddhism.”
“I see,” said Mr. Pinches. “Perhaps he should broaden his horizons.”
When we arrived at the room that housed many of the museum’s treasures of ancient Asia, Pinches stopped in front of a large gilded bronze statue. Golden and luminous, the goddess stood over 140 centimeters high. Her enviable hour-glass body was naked from the waist up. A lower garment, tied to her hips, hit her ankles at the hem. Her right hand reached out as if she were giving something away. Atop her head was a high crown with some kind of medallion.
Clearly mesmerized by the deity’s large exposed breasts, her narrow waist and ample hips, Archie gazed up at the regal goddess. “Who is she?” Archie asked.
“This is our figure of Tara,” Pinches said. “Her legend goes like this. At the beginning of time, the oceans were churning and a poison was created that Lord Shiva, a Hindu deity, drank, thus saving the world from destruction. Tara took Shiva on her lap and fed him with her own milk, a milk that could counteract the poison. This statue was found in the early 1800s on the eastern coast of Sri Lanka. She was subsequently acquired by the British Governor at the time, Sir Robert Brownrigg, who later donated her to the museum. Although,” he added, “there is some speculation that Brownrigg took the statue from the last King of Kandy when that country was annexed. 1815, I believe.
“What do you think, young man?” Pinches asked.
Archie’s eyes were still riveted on the statue. “Strewth, she’s a bonnie pa-” He stopped and, in a hushed tone, said very slowly and cautiously, “God’s truf... truth, she is a beautiful girl.”
Pinches gave me a puzzled look but continued. “She was not on display for three decades,” P
inches said. “Too erotic, some thought. But her purpose is solely religious. Then again, she was likely hidden from the general population in Sri Lanka as well. Only chosen priests and monks were able to admire her. Ironic, isn’t it? Well, now, let’s see if Mr. Feng Zhèng is about. He is Mr. Franks’ assistant. He speaks very little English, but he reads quite well, and he has been invaluable in helping us catalogue various acquisitions. Just down this hall now.”
Feng Zhèng, I thought. He has to be Chinese. This really could be the man that Archibald saw.
I took a deep breath, slipped my arm through Archibald’s, and we followed Mr. Pinches down the dark hallway.
39
Feng Zhèng was definitely of Chinese descent. His skin had a yellow cast, his hair was jet black, and his eyes were angled somewhat downwards. His nose was rather flat and roundish. He had a round face but a strong jawline. When he stood, I called upon my powers of observation and heard Sherlock’s voice in my head. How often did he say that people see but do not observe? I knew few Asian people, but Aunt Susan employed a Chinese washerwoman, and sometimes her husband accompanied her when she dropped off clothing. Neither was more than five feet tall. I believed most Chinese people were small in stature, so Zhèng was far taller, more broad-shouldered, and more athletically built than I would have expected. And, though his face was cordial, there was a flicker behind his eyes, like he was retrieving information from his memory bank. The expression was somehow familiar to me. I’d seen it with Sherlock when his mind was busy working out a problem.
Zhèng wiped his brow with his sleeve and cleared his throat. “Ah, Mister Pinches, what can I do for you?” he asked haltingly.
Mr. Pinches introduced me and asked, “What do you say, Zhèng?”
“Ah, shi, shi. Ni hao. Hello, hello. Please to meet you.” The ‘please’ came out as ‘pwease.’
“I am pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Zhèng. This is my brother Archibald.”
Archibald muttered hello but immediately removed his hat. He turned to me. “I think I will g-g-go over to the d-d-d-d display case,” feigning the stutter.
I knew that this signal meant Mr. Zhèng was the man Archibald had seen in the alleyway, but I proceeded, I hoped, as if the gesture meant nothing. “All right. I’ll be right over.”
It took a while for Mr. Pinches to explain to Mr. Zhèng what I wanted, for it appeared that Zhèng spoke only broken English and Pinches spoke little Chinese. He walked us over to the statue of the Buddha and pointed to it. In a very slow and deliberate manner, he explained to Zhèng that I wanted a small statue like the one in the case. He stopped to explain to me what he was trying to tell him. He said he was telling Zhèng to make (chu pin) a little (xiao) fake (jia) Buddha for me. He pointed to the statue and said, “Like this one in the display case, Zhèng. Only smaller,” he added, touching his forefinger almost to his thumb. “Xiao xing. Small size.”
Zhèng thought a moment, the nodded his head in understanding. “Ah, shi, shi.”
“Can you ask him, sir, if he can actually make one, what will it cost?”
Pinches thought a moment, then asked, “Zhe duo-shaov qián?”
“I can do, quick-quick. No dollar. No dollar. I do all time for Mr. Brown at hospital.”
Pinches’ interest piqued. “Mr. Brown?”
“Mr. Brown at St. Bart’s?” I asked.
“He... uh... he make medicines,” Zeng said. He became very animated. “Shi, shi, Mister Brown at St. Bart’s.”
“I believe he is the apothecary,” I told Pinches. “My brother... my other brother... works at St. Bart’s.”
Zeng motioned to us to follow him back to his little office. He pointed to a shelf. “See? One almost done, I give you.”
“No, no. I couldn’t take one that’s meant for Mr. Brown.”
“Ah,” he said, a shadow crossing his face. “Shi, shi. I make you another. You come back ming tian.”
“Ming tian?”
“Tomorrow,” Pinches explained.
“Shi, shi,” Zhèng agreed, nodding his head furiously. “Tomorrow.”
Sherlock and I had agreed to have him deliver the replica to my uncle’s home. I took a piece of paper from the desk, retrieved a pen from my bag and wrote down my address. “Mr. Pinches, can you explain to him I’d prefer to have him deliver it to this address, tomorrow afternoon? Before Archie’s birthday is over.”
“Oh, shi! Birthday boy?” he asked pointing.
“Yes, for his birthday. Tomorrow. Ming tian.”
Then he yelled, “Happy Birthday!”
Pinches gave him a scowl, put a finger to his lips, and said, “Sssh.”
Nodding again, Zhèng parroted the ‘Sssh.’ “Shi, shi, quiet.”
Pinches turned to me and said, “I will negotiate a price for you, Miss Holmes. But I think I need to get an interpreter in here. These dreadful events... I understand that a replica of the Buddha was left at the scene of each crime. Mr. Zhèng may know something.”
“Indeed. And it should be reported to the authorities. I have a... a cousin at the Yard. I shall advise him forthwith that he should speak with Mr. Zhèng.” I took him aside and asked, “Sir, I take it you do not think Mr. Zhèng had anything to do with the murders?”
“Feng? Good heavens, no. He has a great reverence for life. He won’t even kill a bug. Just the other day, he tried to help a bird with a broken wing. No, I must say this Mr. Brown certainly should be a suspect, given his access to chemicals and his expertise in mixing them.”
“Of course.” Then, in a louder voice, I said, “Very well, then. As to the price, any amount within reason. This will make Archie very happy. How do you say thank you and goodbye?”
“Thank you is ‘Xie Xie’ and goodbye is ‘Zāi jiān.’”
I repeated the words and Zhèng bowed to me several times and gave me a broad smile as I left.
I grabbed Archibald’s arm and hurriedly guided him out of the museum. “That was the man you saw?” I asked as he scrambled down the steps. “You are certain?”
Archibald said, “Dead sure.”
“All right. You run along and find Sherlock and tell him. Tell him everything that just transpired at the museum. Try St. Bart’s and if he isn’t there, then go to his residence on Montague Street. Do you know where he lives?”
Archibald nodded.
“I’m going to talk to Detective Inspector Lestrade... and visit my uncle.” I turned to hail a hansom and Archibald called out to me.
“Miss... Doctor Stamford?”
“Yes, Archibald?”
“Fanks. I’m ‘umbly fankful, for ever’thin’.”
I smiled and waved as he took off running in the other direction.
40
I told the cabbie I would pay him thrice his fare if he got me to the Yard in record time. He raced through the streets, and I had visions of joining the litany of victims I had treated after carriage accidents. Sherlock had told me his mother had died in one... my mind went back to the conversation on the day I’d gone to Oxford to attend to his injuries as he was still recovering from his nasty fall and the dog bite. He’d played his violin, something from the Lieder. He had told me about his parents, his brothers, his Uncle Charles, who could choose a stranger and by observing him for moments only, deduce his occupation and recent activities. That day seemed so long ago, a lifetime ago.
We arrived at the Yard minutes later. I paid the cabbie, jumped out of the cab and ran up the steps and inside. I sought out Detective Inspector Lestrade.
“Detective Inspector, I have some information for you. There’s a man who works for the British Museum. I just saw him. He makes the tiny Buddha statues. He makes them for-”
He cut me off, took me by the elbow, and escorted me to a quiet corner down the hall.
“Detective Inspector,
this man, this Chinese man, he makes the replicas for Mr. Brown, an apothecary at St. Bart’s. An apothecary, sir. Mr. Brown has access to the poison that has taken the lives of these men. He is a member of an ornithological society. Birds, sir. Like the ones left at the scene. You need to-”
“Who told you to go and talk to this man at the museum?”
“What? Did you hear what I said? It’s Mr. Brown, the apothecary at St. Bart’s.”
“Quiet!” he hissed. “Dr. Stamford, please keep your voice down. Why are you meddling in this case?”
“Meddling! Aren’t you listening to me? You must let my uncle go and arrest Mr. Brown. It’s obvious-”
Just then I heard heavy footsteps coming up behind us. I turned. Suddenly I was facing Mycroft Holmes.
“Detective Inspector, I’ll have a word with Dr. Stamford, if you please.”
“Of course, sir,” Lestrade said and hurried down the hall.
“Dr. Stamford, did my brother put you up to this?”
“Did you hear what I said? You must do something. Go arrest Mr. Brown and let my uncle out of here.”
“Did your aunt not tell you? Your uncle has been taken to Newgate. Just a few hours ago.”
“What!” I gasped. “But he has not even been charged. He-”
“He has been, Dr. Stamford. That’s the reason for the transfer.”
“No, this is not possible!” I yelled. I collected myself for I refused to behave like a whining fool and paced for a few moments. “The man at the museum, the Asian man. You have to listen to what I’m saying. He told me he has made statues for Mr. Brown. Surely now you will listen to reason.”
His lips pursed and he glowered at me. “We are speaking to all persons of interest in the matter. I suppose it was Sherlock who has involved you yet again.”
“Last time I worked with Sherlock on an investigation, you involved us.”
He grimaced again.
“Both of you must cease and desist. Let the authorities do their job.”